Dusk fell. Artoria, returning from outside the city, rode slowly down the street on a white warhorse, carrying her new student, "Ouroboros," in front of her.
Mordred rode alone behind them, staring at the spot that should have been his but had been occupied by someone else. His lips were pouted high, and his face was full of displeasure.
Feeling the prickling glare from behind him, Samael cast back an apologetic look that said there was nothing he could do.
Then, that little head shifted back several inches and continued exploring the depth of the valley.
The softness on both sides and their ample fullness brought an unprecedented sense of security.
In this quiet place far from the clamor, Samael's mind seemed unusually clear and sharp, and his perception of the road around them was especially vivid.
After all, every bump and rise traveled through the horse's hooves into the rider's body, then entered Samael's mind through the swaying range of a pair of hanging objects.
The journey he was enjoying was leisurely and comfortable.
With nothing better to do, Samael looked around and took in the sights and customs along Camelot's streets.
Since Samhain, the festival marking the new year, had only just passed, the strong festive atmosphere had yet to fade. Now that night was falling, stalls selling fruit, pastries, toys, and ornaments filled the streets and alleys.
Under the glow of Fluorite Lamps, the residents gathered in the night wore bright, enthusiastic smiles.
By contrast, thanks to the secret spell concealing her aura, the Lion King riding down the side path was surrounded by coldness and solitude.
Not a trace of attention was directed her way, much less any interaction.
This aloof king and Camelot's prosperity seemed to exist in two separate worlds, utterly out of place